Problematic
by simonsaysfunction
Summary: Mahariel thinks on the problematic notion of love during her time away from Leliana. And then...they meet again.


It was with the tang of bitterness, regret and bile and heartache gave a hell of an aftertaste, that Lyna ripped the letter into tiny pieces and threw the handful into the fire crackling merrily—mockingly—in the office she had claimed at the Keep in Amaranthine.

_Delayed._  
Apologies.  
I _love_ you.

Those words rang in her ears in that lilting accent, the prick of teeth against her skin where they were murmured like a ghost, an imprint left months, eons, ago and yet the elf could still visualize her redheaded bard and hear her voice like they were standing beside each other in camp or the halls of Denerim.

In this instance, she hated everything about those memories of happier times. She wanted nothing more than to rip them from her mind and cast them into flames like she had the letter full of sorries and half-hearted explanations about Orlais and someone named Pentaghast.

_I bet she's in her bedroll whispering to her in Orlesian._

The thought came unbidden, just like everything else lately, and she sat in the chair and steepled her fingers, stewing in the thought that she loved a shemlen and how problematic that had proven to be. That shemlen that she hated and loved, needed and despised, desired and reviled.

In one solid move, the Hero of Ferelden, Warden-Commander and Savior, swept everything off her desk in a fit of rage, shattering ink pots and a compass, tearing maps of the Deep Roads and the Free Marches and ruining any filing system she had for her papers. A letter from Alistair landed on top of the pile along with a half-opened one from Nathaniel. Progress reports, requests for her presence at the castle, it went on and on.

The ink began to seep into the cracks of the stone flooring and scattered papers and she felt a tear slip down her cheek along the vallasalin to drip to the loose tunic. "I hate her." She hissed, desperate to cling to this fury that surged hotly in her veins and made her almost wish for another horde to fight. But even as she grasped at it, desperate and near-crazed, it slid through her fingers like the ink on the floor and was replaced by hollow and cold longing.

"I…" One of the recruits had opened the door and was now staring at his superior in a state of shock. No one ever saw her anger, merely cold indifference, perhaps a rare smile with the Wardens she had risked her life with, and here he was confronted with it.

"Out with it." She was tired suddenly and her bones ached, weariness sapping every last twinge of life from her very being and she stood from her chair and made her way around towards the boy.

"A letter came from you from Orl—"

"Burn it."

"But it's an invitation to a wyvern hunt. The Champion of Kirkwall is said to be attending." The boy stuttered, admiration evident in his voice. Two women, both from Ferelden, besting the odds and rising above to become heroes. How romantic. Lyna merely snatched the letter from his hand and ushered him away, flipping the letter open to read. She pursed her lips. Alistair would no doubt wish for her to attend and it wouldn't hurt to "be sociable" as Nathaniel had put it. Unfortunately, the latter was scouting where the Champion had earned her riches with the other Hawke and could not attend with her. Pity that. She would have to find another.

In typical form, she ended up going by herself, unarmed beyond the knives strapped to her thigh. She was dressed in soft leather boots and a deep green brocade tunic with bluish trousers. Her hair was back in its customary tail; however, blonde strands were left to frame her angular face. It felt strange being out of her armor. She even wore the black dragon-wing set when she was at court. A statement of her station, she would tell Teagan and a gesture of support to Alistair.

For a moment, she had thought she heard Isabela, the pirate queen from Denerim, but when she didn't spy the dusky woman, she assumed she had misheard. She stuck near Teagan making small talk, or wandered about until she spotted her. Leliana was here in a slim dress, more form fitting than the one she wore as a Chantry sister, but still reminiscent. Lyna's heart stopped in her chest for a moment, then kicked back with a stuttering staccato rhythm. Her stomach roiled, rebelling against the cheese she had nibbled on earlier at the Arl's insistence.

The bard was standing with another elf and a tall human with dark hair who she assumed to be Hawke, looking almost as uncomfortable as she felt. When the redhead spotted her, her entire body language seemed to change from practiced indifference to genuine delight and Lyna's feet took her there without her permission.

"Lyna!" The woman crooned and she almost fainted on the spot. How she had missed and loathed that voice speaking her name. She stiffly stood beside her and allowed the hand on her arm (it burned through the fabric and made her blood turn molten), tilting her head back to look up at the Champion.

"May I introduce Warden-Commander Mahariel, the Hero of Ferelden to Marian Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall."

"I've heard seemingly endless stories about you." Hawke smiled wryly. "Is it true you fought the Archdemon blindfolded and armed with nothing but a dining fork?"

Lyna had to laugh at that, dimples forming at her cheeks as she leaned into the low stone wall containing the topiary. Away from Leliana without being overt. She didn't doubt that the bard noticed. "Is it true you dueled the Arishok to save your lover's life?"

Hawke's face seemed to pink. "It was a little more complex, but yes, essentially. It's less romantic when you talk about all the dead people and my near-death experiences."

"Undoubtedly. If you will excuse me…" She couldn't get away fast enough, it seemed. Just being in proximity (had she imagined the slim hand stroking her arm, probably not) confused everything, fogged her brain and dried her mouth. Anger and hurt warred with a reunion's elation and the renewed surge of desire for everything Leliana represented. It shouldn't have surprised her (it did) when soft footsteps came behind her and a hand (by the Dread Wolf, her hands) was placed on the small of her back and she was urged to turn.

"I have missed you so…why did you not tell me you were invited?"

"I thought you were with _Cassandra Pentaghast_." She spit the name like it was venom, jealousy curling around the words like a vice. Her better half brought out the best and the worst qualities in her.

"I am…" She looked taken aback at the expression on the elf's face and her hands then came to her cheeks, cupping and caressing, guiding to a mouth that was simultaneous ecstasy and murder. "However, there is something here that I am to watch for."

"Leliana…" The name, a broken prayer, fell from her to tumble against the redhead's lips was the last line of defense before the damn broke and thin fingers were grasping at the dress, bunching some of it at the taller woman's hips to bring her closer and crush a kiss against her lips. They would argue later. Hissed whispers in the corner of the chateau, accusations and gesticulations with hashed together resolutions. It wasn't pretty, but it was what it was. Everything about it was problematic, but here and now, the elf who stopped the Blight no longer cared. "I love you."

She was home.


End file.
